Irrelevant
by Autokabalesis
Summary: Yet another of those "what happens on Monday" fics. Allison-centric, canon couples. Starts on saturday, one chapter per day. Give it a try, you know you want to.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing, not even a proper disclaimer.

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><p><span>Saturday<span>.

He had kissed her.

It was awkward, unfamiliar, soft, uncomfortably intense, sweet, strange, unnerving and exhilarating.

(It was perfect.)

But a kiss didn't change anything. A kiss didn't make all troubles disappear, and it didn't make her feel happier, no matter what her fast-beating heart and flushed skin might betray. A kiss didn't make it all OK. A kiss didn't matter at all.

(Yet, in a way, it kinda did.)

She bounced in place, unable to contain all the nervous energy that overcame her as she couldn't help but wonder if it would last, if it had been as sincere as it had felt, if it would mean something more than a souvenir from a Saturday spent in detention with strangers. She couldn't contain the smile from forming on her lips, afraid and smug at the same time, insecure and yet content. She tore his patch from his shoulder, the tearing sound making everything except him vanish from her awareness for a moment (her own attempt at a make-over, maybe, or some childish wish to keep something of his to hold on while knowing that she might not be able to hold on to him). She waved at him shyly, happily, uncertainly, soothingly, and slowly left his lingering hold, wishing that maybe he would follow, wishing that she meant as much to him as he meant to her already (but no, she corrected herself, he didn't mean anything to her, and she didn't even like him —she never ever liked anybody, she reminded herself, and she was still invisible because a kiss didn't change a damn thing and she didn't care about any of them at all). She didn't dare hope, but she couldn't help but hoping. As she walked away from him she desperately memorized his eyes, his mouth, his face, his arms and hands and body and hair and ears and feet and legs, but not because it mattered. It didn't. She knew it didn't.

(Memorizing wasn't enough. She wanted more. God, she wanted more.)

As she closed the car door her dad sent a sort-of half-smile her way that may have passed as a greeting, and she felt uncharacteristically self-conscious for a fleeting moment. She turned her face to the window noticing that Andy was talking to his father now, still gazing her way from time to time with the same intense wide-eyed look from earlier. Brian was climbing in his own car and Claire and Bender were talking softly, lost in each other's gaze. She remembered Andy's eyes —earnest, warm, powerful, candid— as he had talked to her, as he had _seen_ her, really seen her as if she was something worth seeing. Something that wasn't invisible.

(But it didn't matter, she kept telling herself, it wouldn't last.)

They drove in silence the whole way, as usual, and as she entered the house her mother paused in her compulsive vegetable chopping to acknowledge her with a half-hearted "hi" and a strained tight-lipped grin. She didn't answer her greeting and she didn't wait to see her father enter the house because it didn't matter whether she did or didn't, none of those things ever mattered anymore anyway. She ran to her bedroom and sighed, caressing her lips. She felt so… alive! Raw, open, energetic, hopeful, dizzy. She needed to draw his face, she needed to do something or she would explode in giggles and hysterical squeals like the giddy high school girl she wasn't supposed to be. She ran to her desk to pick up her charcoals and paused for a moment in front of her mirror, inspecting her new artificial beauty and becoming irrationally incensed; furious that she couldn't be beautiful on her own, furious that he had kissed her, furious that the kiss hadn't lasted longer, furious that he wasn't there holding her, furious that she wished he was, furious that she was so goddamn happy/nervous/angry/scared all of the sudden.

She caressed the patch inside her pocket. It didn't matter. It didn't matter.

(She sort-of wished it mattered.)

She changed her clothes, leaving his blue jacket on —but only because it was soft and comfy (and if the kiss didn't matter anyway, wearing it shouldn't matter either).

Her mother asked her something from downstairs, but she didn't bother answering. They never noticed whether she answered or not. The silence fell back in place after a while, like a well-known gray mist over a city that's too tired to complain about the lack of sun. Silence made her nervous sometimes. Still she didn't dare break it, too timid or too tired to care about it anymore. She quietly considered wearing socks or going barefoot instead, finally opting for the latter with a huff.

(She postponed taking off her headband and removing the new make-up. She didn't want to think about it. She didn't want to think about the way Andy's eyes had darkened when she stepped out of her make-over session with Claire. She knew it didn't mean anything. She knew it didn't matter at all.)

She wearily eyed the telephone on her bedside table and debated on plugging it on again or not. It's not like she was expecting his call. It's not as if she had believed him when he had whispered he would call. She knew it wasn't true, and really it didn't matter.

(She plugged it on anyway. Not because of him, just on a whim.)

What about Monday, she wondered again, just like Brian had. Nothing would change, nothing would matter. None of it would matter. Nothing ever mattered, and that was alright, because it was the way things were. But even as she mentally repeated her well-worn mantra, her heart ached with the hope and the pain and the fear and the joy that it might matter. That he would care.

(She cared. She cared so damn much already.)

And maybe that was all it was. She cared —it was enough. It would matter, if only to her. She would care for all of them, even when the others didn't (even when Andy didn't —why would he care? She struggled against that damn growing hope again). She would care and she would always keep them (him) in her heart and in her pocket, her little secret treasure to remember that maybe one time it all had mattered. That maybe she was enough to make things matter.

(That maybe one day she had mattered too.)

She smiled.

(It was a sad smile.)


	2. Chapter 2

Sunday.

She didn't know why she had decided to do this.

(She sort of knew. But it didn't matter.)

On waking up she had remembered the half-finished, half-destroyed project she had rescued from the trash some time the previous week and had decided to fix it. It was probably a bad idea. She wasn't that good at shop, anyway —hadn't taken the class, even though she had attended a couple of times without anyone noticing her misplaced presence. It just was something that she had wanted to do.

(She had noticed John back then. Hadn't said anything. She never said anything, anyway.)

She slowly painted the reconstructed creature, carefully creating a chaotic and yet harmonious composition, slightly reminiscent of those Indian painted elephants photos she remembered seeing in some of her parents' books. While she let it dry, she carefully scribbled in a small notebook the instructions on how to assemble it. She was lucky her father owned so many books on all things electrical.

Brian probably wouldn't want her help. He probably wouldn't be asked the same assignment twice, and he surely wouldn't want to cheat. And he would probably be creeped out that she had picked it up from a trashed locker disaster and kept it before even knowing him. Even more freaked out that she had somehow managed to glue it all back together.

(He would look at her with that dorkish horrified expression of someone with too little experience in social interaction to mask the shock caused by what he doesn't understand and doesn't fit in his well-structured world. He was such a nerd.)

She looked up from her notes. It missed something. A little collage, perhaps?

She went to her closet to retrieve a box full of small pictures she'd cut from magazines and slowly started to select the ones she wanted to use.

(Which ones did she want to use? A pair of blue eyes. A scheme of a brain. A pencil. Some flowers. A crown. A gun. An open book. A lipstick. A pair of black boots. A peace symbol. A smile. Some shiny jewelry. A smoking cigarette. A pair of sunglasses. A kiss. A skull. A knife. The Olympic rings. A scar. A calculator. A can of coke.)

She slowly cut them in even smaller pieces and glued them one by one to the already colorful structure, before returning to the wiring she had had to replace. It wasn't really that hard to fix, and her father did keep all sorts of useful things in the basement that no one would notice missing (she made a mental note to check it out more thoroughly later on; some of those things may come in handy). Brian shouldn't feel like he was cheating, she wasn't even planning on doing all the work —she'd just make it easier to to put it all together later.

And really, it was just a way to pass time.

She quickly added some indications about the switch that she had forgotten to mention in her lengthy instructions before and made sure that the new wires were correctly attached to it, only leaving him with the task of screwing it shut.

(She really wasn't sure why she had wanted to do this, but she didn't want to think too much about it either.)

With a black marker she started drawing around the edges of the pictures she'd glued, peppering them with small written sentences that probably made no sense, but should be written somewhere sometime.

(And an elephant lamp was a perfectly reasonable place to write them.)

She stopped to take a look at the piece from afar, before going back to her brushes and paints. It lacked something, she just didn't know what yet.

(Closure. It lacked closure.)

She ran her fingers along the semi-dried spine of the ceramic elephant before snapping them in realization. Grabbing the pair of scissors with her sticky hand she cut a small lock of hair that she carefully glued to the end of the elephant's tail.

There. Much better.

(A Sunday spent fixing something from the trash. She knew it was strangely symbolic, but refused to acknowledge it.)

She left it to dry, pausing to stare at the bizarre lamp sitting on her desk for a while before going back to the instructions notebook. Making sure that everything was in order she finally closed it and placed it at the bottom of an old cardboard box along with some extra electrical cord, some screws and some other necessary components.

Finally noticing that she was done (at least until the paint dried and she could put the lamp in the box) she nodded decisively and stuck her dirty hands in her pockets.

She sighed. So what now?

She thought about leaving the box in front of Brian's house. She did know where he lived —she had photographic memory, even if she hadn't shared that secret with the rest of them, and one look at his wallet had been more than enough. She would take the bus, leave the stupid box in front of his home, and then what?

("What is gonna happen to us on Monday?" She hated that question almost as much as she hated the answer.)

She squeaked loudly in protest at her own thoughts. Monday didn't matter. Nothing mattered, the only things that mattered were the ones she cared for.

(She'd stupidly let herself care about them. She stupidly cared about Mondays.)

She threw her arms in the air and turned around until she became dizzy, trying to find the freedom she felt when she knew no one was looking her way (trying to dispel the loneliness she felt when she knew no one was _ever_ looking her way).

She put everything back in the box, and the box in her closet. Put on her black sneakers and decided to go out for a walk, not bothering to announce it to her mother (asleep on the couch in front of the TV) or to her father (working on some papers in his study). As she made her way out of the house she passed her older brother Oliver in the hall, and they both awkwardly nodded in an attempt at being civil to someone they didn't know anymore (she missed him so much sometimes —it didn't matter).

She walked aimlessly for a while, humming to herself and trying not to think about anything. It didn't really work (it never really worked) but she kept trying anyway. She was tired of thinking.

But that was just it, wasn't it? Nothing would happen on Monday because nothing was supposed to happen on Monday. Nothing would change. Her perspective may change, the way she saw the people around her may change, the way she felt about herself, the way she felt about others, the way she felt about her problems and about other people's problems —but that was it. Nothing was meant to change on Monday.

Monday didn't matter at all. That was the point of it all.

She felt incongruously satisfied with that conclusion and saddened at the same time. Monday didn't matter. Nothing ever mattered. It was only a matter of perspective.

(She didn't want to think about that anymore. God, she didn't want to think at all.)

She stubbornly shook her head. She felt like yelling, and so she did. Noticing that had attracted the curiosity of an elder couple walking their dog, she turned around and started to run. She was out of breath when she finally made it home.

(It didn't matter.)

She laughed as she closed the front door.

(She was so tired.)


	3. Chapter 3

Monday.

Andy hadn't called. Of course she hadn't been expecting his call, and she had known all along that he wouldn't have called, and it didn't really matter at all.

(But mattering or not was a matter of perspective, too. And in a skewed, weird, aberrant way, it had mattered to her. So much.)

She still wore that stupid headband, only now it was sort of crooked because her inexperienced hands weren't used to handling such things and she hadn't managed to make the bow the way Claire had. Still, it was supposed to make her pretty, wasn't it? Not that she wanted to look pretty. Not at all. It was not as if she had tried to imitate what Claire had done with her face on Saturday and failed miserably either, because she hadn't. She had just felt like experimenting with some old makeup she kept around.

(She was so damn nervous. But it didn't matter.)

She ran out of the house (almost late, again) and quickly climbed in the back of the car, absently greeting her brother and his stupid friend Jake, who often accompanied him. She sat down and tried to blow her bangs, only to remember they were held by that dumb headband. She sighed and smiled self-consciously. She was such a mess sometimes.

(She was a mess most of the time, actually. Hence the psychiatrist appointments.)

Jake looked at her strangely, as if realizing something for the first time. She felt ridiculous. Was it because of the thing on her head? She glared at him, but he just gave her a weird smile and a wink. She didn't like that smile. She didn't like that wink either.

Suddenly, she really didn't like Jake at all.

She looked out the window the whole way, ignoring the quick glances he would send her way from the front seat. She furiously narrowed her eyes a couple of times at him again, but she only got that mysterious smile in response, and after a while she had to stop trying altogether, too annoyed at him.

(Had she lost her edge? Was it because of the headband?)

When they got to school she scrambled out of the car as fast as she could, but Jake grabbed her elbow before she could get too far. "Hey, Allison... See you later, OK? You look pretty today."

She felt her skin crawl and opted for a profanity and an insult as her only answer to his words (the most he'd spoken to her in eight years of being her brother's best friend —not that it mattered). She turned around and scowled at everyone around her, silently daring them to say anything.

(It was just a stupid headband, damn it!)

She walked towards her locker, passing a group of nerds gathered close to the water fountain but not daring to look at them, lest she should find Brian amongst them.

(No, she mentally berated herself, it's not that she didn't dare. She wasn't a coward. It was just that she didn't want to, because it really didn't matter.)

Grabbing her stuff she slowly made her way to homeroom, head turned towards the floor, not making eye contact with anyone. It took her some time dodging oncoming people down the hallway before realizing how absurd it was to feel self-conscious over a headband. It was just a stupid headband. Nothing but a stupid headband! It didn't change who she was and it didn't mean anything because It. Simply. Didn't. Matter.

She laughed out loud at the ridiculous situation, finally raising her head, and gained a few stares in doing so. Laughed even more at the surrealist scene she was probably causing, cackling maniacally with a lopsided bow on her hair. It didn't matter! It didn't matter at all, she thought, relieved by her own repeated words.

She walked more self-assuredly and sent a wink towards a smirking John Bender, who immediately turned the other way and pretended not to have seen her at all.

She laughed harder. It was all so ludicrous. It didn't matter. It didn't matter at all.

(Except it sort of did.)


	4. Chapter 4

Tuesday.

The headband was discarded.

She hadn't liked it that much in the first place, and it hadn't changed her and made her prettier, and it hadn't stopped Bender from pretending he didn't know her, and Andy still hadn't called at all.

(Not that she had expected him to. She knew better.)

She thought she saw Claire's pretty bright red hair on her way down the halls, but didn't pay much attention —she was kind of mad at her because the headband trick hadn't worked its magic, even though it's not like she had expected Andy to notice her and approach her in front of everyone because she hadn't. She really hadn't.

(Sort of had. But it didn't matter.)

She kept surreptitiously scanning the people around her, looking for familiar faces to observe. Brian was standing by the library, laughing at something one of his friends had said. She wondered what it was —he looked sincerely amused, all happy gasps of air and flushed cheeks. Turning around she spotted John smirking at the crowd in a both threatening and compelling way while making his way to the men's room (although for some reason that smirk made her sad, and she longed to follow him, even if she was hurt that he didn't acknowledge her, even if he was bound to pretend nothing was wrong). She continued her perusal of the mass of students around her. Half the hallway away from her, Andy was...

Andy was kissing a girl.

(She knew it didn't matter, she had told herself it didn't matter, she had always known that it didn't matter because honestly, it's not like she had ever wished it could matter. Nothing really mattered. Nothing!)

She tried for a smile, but didn't exactly manage: instead she stood there, a bitter grimace of self-deprecation and anger on her lips, thoughts running wild in an attempt of self-preservation. It didn't matter! It didn't matter!

(It did.)

Andy pulled away from the blond girl and laughed mirthlessly, uneasily, looking both embarrassed, confused and displeased with both her and his friends, that were currently cheering him on. He looked awkwardly around himself and said something that made the girl scowl and his friends laugh, but he didn't laugh with them. He was staring straight at Allison.

She squeaked at being discovered and ran to hide behind some lockers. She hadn't noticed that the bell had rung and most students had fled. She made it to homeroom barely in time, out of breath and flushed.

(What had happened out there?)

She couldn't stop feeling nervous for the rest of the day, barely managing to pay attention to anything around her, not even attempting to draw something beyond uncaracteristically clumsy dooddles, too agitated to concentrate on anything for too long. She tried not to let herself think about what had happened, but she simply couldn't think about anything else. Andy had been kissing someone. But he had also said something that had made said someone scowl. And then he had looked at her.

He had looked at her as if she mattered.

(And she wasn't even wearing the goddamn headband. Hah!)

She wondered what it all meant. Maybe he didn't want that girl to kiss him? Yeah right. Was she fooling herself? Was she misreading the looks Andy sent her way? Had it been (how humiliating!) wishful thinking?

(It didn't matter. It didn't matter!)

She wondered if maybe that blond girl was someone he had been dating. She frowned, but forced herself to think about it: just because he hadn't said anything about dating someone didn't mean he wasn't.

(What had the kiss on Saturday meant? What had this new kiss meant?)

Nothing. Maybe it was all simple as that. Kisses didn't matter. Their kiss hadn't meant anything and that's why he had hesitated before kissing her, afraid that she might think it meant something. But then again, it did mean something to her.

(Even if she wouldn't allow herself to admit what it was.)

Kisses, looks, words... Nothing meant a thing, and yet it all did. The meaning changed, as did the person that perceived them, and what was meant to be a simple goodbye could mean more (so much more) to someone else. But nothing mattered, not really.

(Only the things she allowed to matter.)

She walked out of the school still deep in thought, almost bumping into Jake that was leaning against the side of her brother's car with his arms crossed. He held her to stop her from stumbling and caressed her arms as he gently asked, "Hey, are you OK?"

She looked up in confusion before snapping out of her trance and pulling away, brow furrowed and scowl in place. She climbed into the car, not bothering to answer the question. It didn't matter. She looked out the window and saw Brian looking her way. She was about to wave when he turned the other way.

(She was so tired of things that didn't matter but sort of did.)


	5. Chapter 5

Wednesday.

Walking to school sounded like a good idea.

Asides from avoiding Jake (whose behavior towards Allison was somewhere in between flattering and insulting, a difficult combination that he creepily managed to pull off) she figured she could use the time to think and observe, two of the few things she actually considered herself to be good at.

By the time she arrived to school she still hadn't managed to sort through her jumbled thoughts or to pay any attention to her surroundings. She didn't see any of the members of the Breakfast Club that morning (or if she did she simply ignored them). She had a lot of time to think, but she still didn't draw any conclusion at all.

The afternoon came quickly, and along with it her scheduled appointment with Dr. Chapman. Her mother drove her this time, a few awkward attempts at conversation from Allison quickly dying when it became clear that she was either too tired or too indifferent towards her own daughter to offer any answer beyond "uh huh" and "ah". It didn't matter. If she wanted to talk, she had Dr. Chapman. After all, he got paid to listen.

She got there right on time, but her mother was apparently running late because the car took off as soon as she climbed off and closed the door. She made her way towards the doctor's office (third floor, second door on the left) absently watching her skirt's hemline dance around her ankles with each step she took.

(Dead man walking.)

The session wasn't particularly enjoyable. She tried to tell Dr. Chapman about the friends she had made during detention, but he quickly announced that she didn't need to make up any new stories, and that he was mainly interested in her feelings and motivations. She told him then that she was simply tired of being invisible sometimes, and that it felt like she was surrounded by a void of sound and communication. He told her then that the void was imaginary and self-constructed, and that she was not invisible, for her parents were worried enough about her to send her to therapy. That got her thinking, and so she focused on that idea instead of answering any further questions Dr. Chapman may have made that day.

She walked out when the hour passed, being reminded by an excessively cheerful secretary that she was to return next Wednesday. As she made her way to the street she looked around, verifying that once again everyone had seemed to have forgotten to pick her up. Shrugging she began walking until a hand latched onto her arm, and she turned around, ready to attack, only to find herself face to face with Jake.

"Hey, Allison! How come I didn't see you this morning?"

What a stupid question. Was he supposed to see her every morning? She huffed angrily and blew her bangs out of her face to tell him exactly just how retarded he was, but before she could do so he planted a short, awkwardly cold and wet peck on her lips.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

He smiled shyly and offered as way of apology, "Sorry. Was that too fast for you?"

Fast? It was completely unnecessary and unwanted, that's what it was! Never having been in this situation before Allison wasn't sure how to proceed, or if there was some sort of established social protocol that might save her from further assaults on her lips, so she opted for honesty.

"Jake, I don't even like you. Hell, I don't know you. You don't know me either! What the hell is wrong with you? You can't just wait for me outside the doctor's... Wait. How did you know I'd be here?"

(Fear. Right then, what she felt was fear. She hated it.)

The smile that Jake sent her way was smug and it made her nauseous. "I have my ways. Don't worry, Allison, I can wait. Maybe you're not ready yet. I'll be patient."

Just then a purple car turned around the corner and came to a halt in front of Allison. "Hurry up," were the only words her mother offered as greeting. She turned around but Jake had already disappeared.

Midway back to the house, Allison attempted to tell her mother about Jake. It had been disturbing her and she hated feeling so confused and frustratingly vulnerable. She was serious when she spoke about it, even resorting to touching her mother's shoulder from time to time to make sure she was listening. She was scared and she tried to show it, to try and communicate with her for once.

(To try and make her really worry about her, for once.)

Her mother told her that Jake wasn't there when she arrived, and that it was absurd to believe that he'd show up there. And even if he did, it would be to offer her a ride, and that she should quit fantasizing, just like Dr. Chapman had said she should. With that the conversation ended, for every other protest from Allison was received with an absent "yeah, yeah" and nothing else.

It didn't matter.

(She didn't matter.)

Right then and there, Allison realized that Dr. Chapman had been right. She wasn't invisible. No, that wasn't her problem. Her problem was that she was irrelevant.

(Some things don't matter even when they should matter, some things matter even when they shouldn't.)

Irrelevant. Numbly she considered the word. _Irrelevant_.

What a pretty, sad word.


	6. Chapter 6

Thursday.

She didn't take a shower, even though she felt dirty.

Instead she covered her eyes with what Claire had called "that black shit" and picked up the same clothes from the previous day, covering them with an unbuttoned checkered shirt she had inherited from her Oliver's closet. She didn't want to be pretty. She just wanted to build herself a cocoon and sleep in it.

She walked down the stairs slowly, careful not to make any noise. She closed her eyes when she finally made it downstairs. She wondered if Jake would be in the car with her brother. For once she truly wished she was invisible.

(It didn't matter. She didn't matter. She didn't want to matter.)

She climbed in the car, numb, cold, dirty. Stared out the window until she noticed the engine wasn't turned on, and she was the only one inside the car. Oliver had either forgotten about her or simply overslept. She sighed. She wanted to be invisible, and it was OK.

(It still sort of stung.)

She got late to school. She walked the halls and wandered aimlessly until she almost got caught, and soon ducked into the girls bathroom. She waited for the hour to pass and walked to her history class, trying not to make a sound, trying not to look at anyone in the eyes.

(Invisible.)

When Mrs. Carlson asked for the assignment Allison had completely forgotten about, she briefly worried. The teacher asked for the assignments to be passed over to the front, instead of picking them up one by one herself, and Allison shrugged, ignoring the others that dutifully passed theirs.

It didn't matter. She didn't matter, and, as expected, no one noticed.

"Nice to see you could finally join us, Miss Standish."

Claire blushed in the entrance of the classroom, muttering something that must have been an apology because it seemed to appease Mrs. Carlson. Before sitting down she surveyed the seats, her gaze resting for a moment on Allison. Startled she looked around herself, trying to identify what she was looking at. Claire frowned slightly, never looking away, and finally sat down somewhere in the middle rows.

Allison belatedly waved awkwardly, then became transfixed by her hand, imagining what it would be like to be transparent. Would it be much different from then?

(Would it matter?)

She frowned, took some paper and a couple of pencils from her bag and tuned out whatever the teacher was saying. She drew carefully, but decisively. Soft traits laced with the certainty of experienced manipulation, slowly forming a landscape of grays. Some mountains, some clouds. A place that no one but her knew. A few trees, fallen branches, shadows in the snow. She accentuated the picture with darker shades now, creating the effect she was looking for. A puddle of mud, fallen leaves, strangely shaped rocks.

(Loneliness.)

She used her fingers to play with the shadows on the paper. She perfected the shading, added a few highlights with the eraser, reinforced a few traits. When she was finally done, she inspected her work. The landscape was beautiful, and it made her think of adventures and dreams yet to come.

("How come you never draw people?" her art teacher had asked once. "It all seems so desolate.")

As she looked at the finished pictured, she imagined herself in the middle of it, as she often did.

(Perfectly invisible.)

The bell rang, and classes flew by. She didn't pay any notice, having opted instead for hiding inside her parka, the excessive heat of her hiding place making her sleepy. When school was finally over she slowly made her way out, eyes fixed on the floor, ignoring all noises around her. For the first time during the whole week, she didn't care about where the Breakfast Club may be or what they would do if they saw her.

They wouldn't see her. Or maybe they would, but it didn't matter.

(She didn't matter.)

She felt disconnected from everything around her. She decided to walk home, after all no one would have remembered to pick her up. She was surprised to discover Jake waiting for her outside the school, and for a brief moment she considered running the other way, or yelling at him to make him stop with this absurd fixation he seemed to have developed, or asking someone for help. Asking whom for help? There was no one (no one that cared).

She slowly made her way towards him, too tired and invisible to put up a fight anymore.

"Hey, Allison, Oliver couldn't come so I came to pick you up instead, OK?"

She didn't reply, let him caress her cheek tenderly as way of greeting, climbed in when he opened the door for her, waited for him to climb in after her. It didn't matter. She turned her head to look out the window, and found Andy looking her way, a confused look on his face. She would have waved, but she didn't know if it would make a difference.

She felt absolutely transparent.

(Irrelevant.)


End file.
